Now he frowned at me. “Explains what?”

“Why she finds you amusing.”

He raised a single eyebrow. “Amusing.”

“Yeah. When you raise your hand at every single question like Hermione.” I demonstrated.

He stood straighter, offended. “I am not Hermione.”

“You totally are.” His eyes narrowed and it was all I could do not to laugh because he looked cute when he was annoyed. “What? She’s the smartest character in the whole school.” He was not mollified. But neither was I. “And you didn’t really answer the ‘why’ you came here.”

“Didn’t I?” Once again the dough proved engrossing.

“Nope.”

“Hmmmm . . .”

I drew in a breath to press on.

Which was when Aunt Esha returned holding a white tin. “Drinking chocolate!” she said in triumph.

Arthur smiled. “Perfect.”

And it was then I realized he had effectively filibustered me to avoid answering my question. Which only made me want to know the answer that much more.

Fifteen

Creating British hot chocolate was way more involved than opening a packet of instant cocoa and plopping it in a mug of hot water then adding a marshmallow or, you know, ten, which was my typical modus operandi.

I let Aunt Esha take charge since I was already starting to sweat the cookie dough for the funfetti shortbread with dark chocolate dip, which didn’t look like I thought it should. Neither did the pfeffernuesse, one being too mushy and the other lumpy.

But I convinced myself the cookies were in the precooked larva stage, so it was okay.

We shoved four trays of both into the oven, which I then turned on only to realize I should have had it warming up the whole time, so I added about twenty-five degrees to make up for the oversight.

As we three waited in the empty adjacent dining room for the cookies, Aunt Esha handed Arthur and me our mugs of British hot chocolate, keeping one for herself.

Both watched me intently and I felt like a science experiment taking that first sip. The contrarian in me wanted to shrug and say “whatever, Brits.” But as much as I hated to admit it, there truly was no comparison.

“That’s . . .” I looked at them watching me in expectation. “. . . a lot better.”

They smiled at the same time, which highlighted their resemblance. It wasn’t always present. Arthur’s skin tone was a lighter shade of brown from his auntie’s, and though I didn’t know what his father looked like, I had a feeling Arthur’s jawline came from the Watercress side. But after learning last night the importance of Aunt Esha in his life, I could see the similarity in their mannerisms. Particularly around their eyes when they smiled.

We sat at a table in the dining room, which also had an unused fireplace.